


A Taste for Security

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:25:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet fixed Red Alert, but the side effects took some getting used to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Taste for Security

**Title:** A Taste for Security  
 **Artist:** [](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/profile)[**shibara_ffnet**](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/) / Ao3 Shibara  
 **Warnings:** Glitches. Red Alert. Vikings. BDSM: Bondage, Domination, Scientists, and Mechs.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Autobots  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors (or scenery), nor does it make a profit from the play. Artist and author did not actually try to kill each other.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Artist vs Author deathmatch challenge. Shibara-FFnet: _”Because I got tired of painting seekers…”_ \+ Me: _“Does Prowl have a flavor?”_

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Ratchet fixed him, but the side effects took some getting used to."**  
 **[* * * * *]**

In the end, the Autobots chose to blame Ratchet. It wasn’t so much that things had gone wrong and they needed a scapegoat, so much as things hadn’t precisely gone to plan and, fraggit, it was someone’s fault.

It was like the time Wheeljack had added “something special” to the energon in the ration dispenser in the common room. They’d woken up three days later packed into Omega Supreme, all of them wearing tinfoil party hats and lurid yellow happy-face stickers. They’d stumbled back into the base and turned on the TV, only to have News Channel 8 tell them that they’d apparently kicked Decepticon aft in Mexico despite none of them remembering doing so. They’d blamed Wheeljack afterward because it hadn’t been wrong, but it certainly hadn’t been right.

Ratchet just sighed and accepted responsibility this time around. All things considered, there were worse things to be blamed for than this (Huffer, in Storage Bay #4, with a rope). He had, after all, been the one to tinker with Red Alert's paranoia glitch. He’d been trying to root it out entirely, but it turned out that the Security Director’s self-repair systems had thrown in the hat and just incorporated the slagging thing. Getting rid of the glitch would have gotten rid of several important functions such as filter monitoring and, oh hey, memory.

Yeah…no. Not acceptable. The medic had settled for eliminating the life-threatening electric charge-rushes to Red Alert’s cerebral circuitry. That had gone over well enough -- the spastic Lamborghini wasn’t dead yet -- but the side effects had taken some getting used to.

Still, side effects were better than fourteen intruder alerts going off every day and a dozen accusations of spies. In fact, the Autobots were starting to, ah, ‘get a taste’ for their Security Director’s new little eccentricities.

Most of the bridge shift didn't even look up as Red Alert wandered in, still half in recharge as his systems slowly cycled up. Ratchet had slowed his system initialization _way_ down. That was a good thing, except when it wasn't. Then it was just kind of a strange thing.

"Hey, Red," Jazz said without stopping work on the datapad he was downloading onto Teletraan 1. "Who ya lookin' for?"

"Mrrgle.” Translation: _‘Good morning, Jazz. How are you this fine day?’_ Or that was how Jazz chose to interpret the slurred sound blurt, anyway. “Prmph?"

"He's in a teleconference with the President."

"...fuuu.” _’I find this news disappointing. Perhaps my second target is more accessible. If you would aid me, perchance, in finding him?’_ “Owrrl?"

Prowl glanced up, aptly translating Red Alert’s disgruntled mumble as a query after his location. The Autobots were becoming skilled at decrypting the code dialect known as Red Alenglish. Sparkplug spoke it fluently after a few too many beers, oddly enough. "I'm over here, Red Alert."

Sunstreaker eyed the other Lamborghini askance as Red Alert meandered across the bridge, soft grumbling noises trailing in his wake. The Security Director listed badly to one side as if tacking against a wind only he could feel. Prowl tapped the screen in front of them to regain the golden frontliner's attention. Mirage hadn't even looked away. "I believe our best solution would be to split training duty between Ironhide and you two depending on targeting scores."

"I disagree," Sunstreaker said roughly. "The firing range isn't an adequate measure of shooting ability."

"There isn't enough physical challenge involved," Mirage agreed, politely stepping aside as Red Alert sleepily sailed right through the space he'd been occupying. "It's hardly an acceptable standard of battlefield abilities."

The black-and-white officer frowned down at the screen. "What do you propose? Combining training sessions instead of separating them?" The ongoing mumbles of complaint cut off as Red Alert homed in on the mech he was looking for. Prowl shrugged his doors out of the way as his fellow officer draped himself over the Datsun's shoulders and rested there.

The Security Director's new, Ratchet-built recognition system sought out and verified Prowl's distinctive EM signature. Their EM fields meshed, and dim blue optics contentedly shuttered. The not-quite-glitchy mech finally relaxed, humming happily as he all but burrowed into the other Autobot’s neck. _’Executive Officer located. Identity verified. Mission accomplished.’_

"Yes, good morning to you as well," Prowl absently greeted him. "The firing range is hardly ideal for your proposed training regime."

"That's sort of the point," Sunstreaker snorted. “We’re training mechs to shoot and fight during battle, not while standing in one place or inside a rink.”

"Is there any reason we cannot simply rebuild the firing range into part of the obstacle course?" Mirage moved to Prowl's other, non-occupied side. Instead of snuggling there, however, he scrolled the screen down to the design specs for the course. "A simple addition could incorporate space further up the mountainside."

Red Alert turned vacant optics toward Mirage, following the sound of his voice if not processing what was actually being said. His optics suddenly blinked to bright, online-blue. His systems rebooted in a quick jump. The three mechs looked at him, hearing the clicking whine of systems switching to full operations. It wasn’t surprising anymore, although the first few times Red Alert had instantaneously flipped from half-recharge to hyper-aware had scared everyone. There was nothing quite so alarming as having the mech sprawled in one’s lap go from snoozing pile of limbs to order-snapping Security Director in a split second.

Then were no orders snapped out this time. He only rested his chin on Prowl's shoulder and read over the proposal currently on the screen. Sharp optics studied the plan, picking out the best spots for surveillance equipment.

Slow, almost thoughtful, he dipped his chin and licked Prowl's shoulder. "Hmm."

"Comments?" Prowl invited dryly. There really wasn’t anything left on Earth that could rattle him anymore. Getting licked by the Autobot Security Director didn’t even rank in the Top 10 Weird Moments of Prowl’s Life, these days. Sunstreaker and Mirage barely even noticed.

The tip of his tongue held between his teeth, Red Alert 'hmm'ed again. He was either contemplating the proposal or Prowl's taste. Between Ratchet’s new additions to his sensor systems and his normal security concerns, it was entirely possible that the two were related. New security measures based on Autobot flavor?

Eh. Stranger things happened around the _Ark_ on a near-daily basis.

After a couple seconds, Red Alert reached over Prowl’s shoulder and forwarded a copy of the plan to his own terminal. Then he pushed himself upright and went off in the direction of the Security office. Most of the bridge shift didn't watch him go. Those that did idly counted down the days until it was their turn to be 'verified.'

Yeah, it was strange. Still preferable to Red Alert's old methods, though.

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/gunmaxual/pic/0004zw7d/)  
“New Security Measures” **by** [](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/profile)[**shibara_ffnet**](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/)  
 **[* * * * *]**

 

"There's a Security Director attached to you," Bumblebee pointed out as he joined the group at the table, just in case Grimlock hadn't noticed the Lamborghini gnawing on his upper arm. Not likely, but it seemed polite to say something. "Deal me in?"

Grimlock looked up from the teensy-tiny cards held pinched in his fingers. "Me Grimlock say 'go fish,'" he said to Sideswipe, who made a face and obediently rummaged in the pile for a new card. "Me Grimlock know," the Dinobot said to Bumblebee. He didn’t seem to care. Red Alert, looking annoyed and frustrated, kicked his legs as he gnawed. Sunstreaker absently scooted his chair out of the way. "You Bumblebee wait for next hand."

"No problem, big guy." Bumblebee dragged a chair over from the nearest table and settled in to watch the current game.

"How is he Slag and he Spike?" Grimlock asked, pinning Red Alert to his side with his elbow while he laid down a pair of eights. The Lamborghini gave a muffled growl, and one big hand left the cards to idly pat him on the head. Red Alert batted it away.

"Ratchet says Slag's gotta get his tail reattached the hard way, whatever way **that** is," the other Autobots at the table exchanged wary looks, wondering what exactly was the easy way if rebuilding a melted tail from scrap was the hard one, "and First Aid's at the hospital right now. Spike's fine, but the doctors want to keep him overnight."

"That's good," Sideswipe commented. "Blaster! Got any threes?"

"Go fish."

"Sonnuva glitch!"

Red Alert abruptly let go and slipped out from under the Dinobot leader’s arm to stride across the room. Bumblebee turned to watch in surprise, but the others didn't even look away from the card game. "He Red Alert do that," Grimlock said when the little yellow scout gave him a quizzical look. "Says me Grimlock taste like he Megatron after battle."

"Must be the fire," Blaster theorized, gathering the cards when Sideswipe finally threw his hand down in disgust.

"Me Grimlock think so."

"Yeah, but chewing on you? Seems like overkill." Bumblebee accepted his first card with a smile.

Grimlock dismissed his concern. "Me Grimlock have thick armor." True enough; Red Alert hadn’t even left bite marks.

"...anybody else wondering how exactly ol' Red knows what Megatron tastes like?" Sideswipe asked slowly.

Across the room, Red Alert sipped his ration and didn't so much as blink when the entire table of card players whipped around to stare at him.

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/gunmaxual/pic/00050s90/)  
“Grimlock’s TeddyBear” **by** [](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/profile)[**shibara_ffnet**](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/)  
 **[* * * * *]**

 

Just another day returning to the _Ark._

Hound and Beachcomber chattered and went on their way into the volcano, unencumbered by security concerns after a quick scan by the Security Director waiting for them at the entrance. Inferno, on the other hand, transformed and immediately had Red Alert hanging off one of his helm's sensor projection. By his mouth.

This was not abnormal in any way. The Autobots had gotten used to Red Alert’s somewhat off-the-wall methods since Ratchet finished tweaking his glitch. By now, it’d take publishing a “Taste of Home: Autobot Edition” recipe book for Red Alert to shock them anymore.

In this case, it was barely any effort at all for Inferno to put an arm under the smaller Autobot's aft and hoist him up onto a hip to carry through the halls.

"Geez, Inferno, what'd you do to get him on your case?" Somewhat amused, Jazz stopped in his tracks to watch the two mechs approach. Well, to watch Inferno approach and take Red Alert along for the ride.

Inferno smiled. "Who says I did anything?"

"Aw, c'mon, you must have done somethin' suspicious. That's got 'security measure' written **all** over it."

The fire truck started to answer, but the Lamborghini clinging to him said something. Whatever it was, it got muffled by the rather sensitive bit of helm currently being sucked on. The vibration went straight into the fire truck's sensor grid, and Inferno snapped his mouth shut before an undignified sound escaped. Another mumble, and something quite like a squeak got out anyway.

"If yo **u'll** excuse us," Inferno managed, voice not as level as it should have been, "I think Red Alert needs to go secure my quarters. Very suspicious, my quarters. Security measures need to be implemented in, ah," his optics fritzed white as the Security Director sucked hard enough to be heard, then let go in order to lick daintily at the recessed sensor nodes, "in my berth. Yes."

Jazz blinked after them.

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/gunmaxual/pic/000516c4/)  
“This Is An Emergency!” **by** [](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/profile)[**shibara_ffnet**](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/)  
 **[* * * * *]**

 

"No."

"But..."

" **No.** " Red Alert frowned. "He'll betray us."

Sideswipe winced a little as a ripple of nervous laughter went around the common room. Of all the times for Red Alert's old glitch to rear its paranoid head, it had to be right when they were all having a good time. "Red, don't be like that. It's just for fun."

The Security Director looked startlingly casual for a mech who'd just accused a fellow Autobot of turning traitor. He didn't even swing his feet off the table. He just folded his arms and swept a contemptuous look over Mirage from head to foot. "Fun or not, he doesn't belong here. **Look** at him!" he appealed to the others around the table. "He doesn't even look like us!"

Mirage shifted uneasily as a dozen sensor-horned helms turned. Sideswipe smiled weakly but had to shrug agreement. It was true. Mirage just...didn't fit in at the table. The noble was sleek and pretty, which usually worked in his favor, but not tonight. Not after the Earth history documentary that had divvied up the mechs already in the common room. Now every Autobot who came in was being judged for suitability, and Mirage just didn't cut it.

"Come on, you've already got Ratchet and Prowl by default!" Ironhide called from across the room.

"Not to mention Sunstreaker," Brawn grumbled. "Buncha barbarians don't gotta grab everyone."

"He doesn't belong with us," Red Alert said decisively, "and I can prove it." He stood up suddenly, and Mirage took a step back warily as the Lamborghini advanced on him. That didn't save him from the quick grab-and-yank that brought him into range for --

Both tables of Autobots whooped, cheering, as Red Alert kissed the ever living gears out of the taller mech. Wariness turned to shock, shock turned to acceptance, and acceptance turned to enthusiastic participation as Red Alert all but plundered the noblemech's mouth. Frag, he practically sailed a longboat of sexy into MirageLand and raided for booty. He certainly had his hand on some, anyway.

The savage kiss eventually came to a slow end. The Security Director gradually eased back into a soft pressure and tiny, flicking licks of his tongue across Mirage's bottom lip. The hand cupping Mirage’s helm caressed gently, but Red Alert’s _other_ hand gave a quick squeeze.

When he finally was released, a wobbly-kneed Mirage in-vented deeply. "Oh dear," he breathed faintly. "Oh my."

"Hear that?" Red Alert said, satisfied. "Clearly, he's a Saxonbot."

The horn-helmed Vikingcons sent Mirage, thoroughly ravished, stumbling off to the other table.

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/gunmaxual/pic/00052qe1/)  
“Vikingcon vs. Saxonbot” **by** [](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/profile)[**shibara_ffnet**](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/)  
 **[* * * * *]**

 

The Autobots had been telling Red Alert for years to "get a grip." They didn't know what to do now that he had.

No, seriously. They didn't know. The Security Director was curled up in a tight ball in Skyfire's pilot seat, and he had a death grip on the safety straps. Nobody had been able to pry his hands loose, much less his mouth.

"Should we wake him up?" Cliffjumper didn't know why he was whispering. They'd already unloaded Skyfire, shouting and joking the whole time, before anyone thought to wonder where Red Alert had disappeared to. The Lamborghini had recharged through Tracks' shrieking dismay when a sample crate had scratched a long peel of paint off his hood, so why would he wake up from Cliffjumper talking in a normal voice? The red Mini-bot cleared his throat and upped his volume purposefully. "I mean, Skyfire's gonna want to transform eventually."

"I don't mind," the shuttle said. He sounded mildly amused by the whole affair. "Truly, this is not the first time he's done this."

"He finds your electromagnetic field to be relaxing," Perceptor agreed as he examined Red Alert's hands. There was no slack to be found. The Lamborghini gave a low snore and sank his teeth deeper into the strap when the scientist tugged on it. "Your resonance has a uniquely peaceful rhythm to it, something I have personally discovered to be beneficial during our time spent working together. Considering the field-sensor modifications Ratchet added to his scanners, I do not find it surprising in the least that Red Alert would seek your company." He glanced at Skyfire's console panel, one side of his lips quirking up. "It is more surprising Inferno has not objected to the number of times our dearest Security Director has ended up...inside you."

"Did Perceptor just make a dirty joke?" Cliffjumper wondered out loud.

"I meant that in the technical sense," the scientist demurred over Skyfire's snickering.

"Hey, guys!" The red Mini-bot stuck his head through Skyfire's hatch into the cargo bay. "Perceptor's gettin' nasty with big words and literal meanings!"

"Pics or it didn't happen!" somebody called back.

"Yes, because pictures will certainly bear witness to verbal molestation." Perceptor's face could not have been any straighter. "For all a picture will record, I could be reading aloud a microwave's operation manual or a pleasurebot's rewrite of the Kama Sutra -- "

The shuttle shuddered around them, reminding them that they were standing inside a living being. "Before this conversation devolves any further," Skyfire sighed, "it might be wise to exit me."

"We can't just **leave** him here!" Cliffjumper protested, pointing at Red Alert. "You can't transform with him in you!"

"Actually, I can."

" -- what, really?"

"Really."

The two Autobots looked at each other over Red Alert's bent head. "Pictures or it did not happen?" Perceptor asked wryly.

"Yeah, I think so."

Skyfire chuckled as they both went for the hatch. They helpfully shooed the other Autobots out as they went, too. He waited until they exited, then sealed his outer doors and focused on his remaining passenger. As he’d said, this wasn’t the first time he’d acquired an onboard security detachment. The hard part was keeping the detachment attached, but Skyfire could manage.

He wrapped his field around Red Alert in a careful, all-encompassing hug and _nudged_. Red Alert mumbled tiredly and shifted, just a little. When Red Alert finally slowed down enough to recharge, he recharged like the dead. Skyfire rumbled amusement and began, slowly, to transform.

It took about 10 kliks, nudging and coaxing and turning about and over himself, but Skyfire did it. Cliffjumper and Perceptor and the others stood and stared, watching in utter fascination. Red Alert moved as if climbing in his sleep, guided through an armor and joint obstacle course without his systems even registering the fact that he was active. Several times, he latched onto an armor plate and wouldn’t let go until enticed loose with something else to chew on. Skyfire patiently got him up and around and in place, and still he recharged.

The shuttle finished transforming, ending in a kneeling position in the middle of the base's launching pad. He looked over his shoulder and grinned at the small Autobot clamped securely onto his back. Red Alert was sort of...hanging off Skyfire's wings, but his grip was solid. Even as he watched, the little mech nuzzled closer and licked the wing he clung to as if reaffirming the shuttle was an Autobot.

When Skyfire stood up, Red Alert continued to doze, and nobody but nobody was going to make him let go.

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/gunmaxual/pic/00053q5c/)  
“Safe and Secure” **by** [](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/profile)[**shibara_ffnet**](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/)  
 **[* * * * *]**

 

It seemed like such an easy mission. Blaster was off in Japan with the Dinobots doing karaoke lullabies for Godzilla, so he was well out of the way. It’d been stupid-easy for Soundwave to capture and incapacitate one of Blaster’s Cassettes, and reformatting Frenzy’s armor was fragging simple for the Constructicons. There were benefits to being a tiny scraplet, sometimes.

It made infiltration a breeze, for one thing. Frenzy straightened his shoulders and smiled brightly at the Lamborghini braking to a halt in front of the rest stop. Oh, this was going to be _fun._

“Hey, Red Alert!” he chirped in Rewind’s obnoxiously cheerful voice. He jogged out to meet the car, bouncing on his feet in fake enthusiasm. Puffs of dust followed his footsteps and billowed around Red Alert’s tires. The larger mech didn’t appear to mind the dirt, and Frenzy pretended not to.

Only Autobots knew why his pick-up was the glitchy Security Director. All Soundwave had been able to pry out before Rewind went into scramble lock-down was that Red Alert would pick him up in some grubby human rest stop alongside the highway in Utah. Whatever. The desert was nothing but blazing hot sun and dust worse than a vacuum cleaner sneezing, but it still beat New Jersey.

Thrust had dropped Frenzy off two hours ago, and he’d amused himself while waiting by using all the human travel brochures to clog every single toilet on the premise. Teach the humans to build rest stops in the middle of nowhere. Next bunch of morons to come this way could go on a scenic tour of the sewage system.

“Hello, Rewind.” The car’s passenger-side door popped on its own, inviting the Cassette in. Frenzy chose not to transform and instead slid into the seat. Red Alert seemed briefly nonplussed by that, but Rewind was known for picking up traits from the humans at random. Made it a snap to imitate the twerp, in Frenzy’s opinion. The door hesitated before closing. “…alright. Buckle up.”

It was Frenzy’s turn to be taken aback. _’Buckle up’_? What the frag did he mean by that?

Oh, right. Humans were bags of juicy internal organs with a tendency to squish when meeting hard objects at high velocity. Skywarp liked demonstrating that by dropping them from tall buildings, but it also happened frequently when humans rammed their vehicles into things. Like other vehicles. That was Frenzy’s favorite thing about the Stunticons, in fact.

He fumbled for the seatbelt, still smiling. It felt kind of unnatural, but no more so than sitting inside an Autobot trying…to figure out…how the…this wasn’t any seatbelt configuration he’d seen on TV. How did this thing work? Maybe it wrapped…or went through…slagging belts were getting tangled! “Hold on, I’ll get it,” Frenzy said, projecting optimism instead of disgust. Or frustration. He was being outwitted by a knot of safety harness straps. How undignified.

Red Alert chuckled, starting down the road. “I’m a Fire Chief, not a standard sports car model, Rewind. It goes over your shoulders, across your chest, and buckles over your waist and thighs.”

…that explained why this seat belt had more straps than Insecticons had legs. “I knew that.”

“I’m sure you did.” Slag the Autobot and the tires he’d rolled in on. If not for the mission, Frenzy would piledrive the laughter right out of him.

Dashboard air vents snapped open as Frenzy wrestled the knot back into individual straps. Good. It was hotter than a smelter outside, which made Red Alert’s interior the anteroom to the Pit. Frenzy’s systems didn’t like cycling hot, stale air at all. First thing the disguised Decepticon had intended to do when he straightened out the seatbelt was open a fragging window, but air conditioning was even better. Let the Autobot keep him cool.

Weird, though. Instead of blowing air, the Autobot sucked _in_ a huge gulp of it. Apparently, even the glitch’s ventilation system was wired backward.

Frenzy snorted under his breath and managed to click a buckle home, only to find that he’d just pinned his right arm to his side. “Fr -- bla -- scra -- “ Autobots probably edited their language for inappropriate content. How the frag did Rewind swear?! “…dang,” Frenzy said lamely, unable to think of anything else ‘human’ that wasn’t unacceptably obscene, too.

He pried at the strap, because it’d slipped into his elbow joint and stuck there. Ugh, how annoying. No wonder some humans didn’t use these things. Although Frenzy would survive going headfirst through the windshield if he didn’t, and humans kind of wouldn’t. Trying to get it out only tightened it elsewhere, and now he had a shoulder strap awkwardly slung between neck and shoulder on the opposite side. The more he twisted, trying to free himself, the tighter it wedged under his chin. “Uh, little help here?”

“Hmm. Ah, I know. You have to buckle the lap-strap first.” Red Alert sounded slightly impatient with Frenzy’s mess. “Don’t pull **that** strap. That’s going to make it worse. See the buckle on your right thigh? Pull on it until you can fasten it at your hip.”

“How is that going to help?” the Cassette grumbled, but he pulled anyway. “I don’t have enough slack.“ The strap loosened as more seatbelt suddenly came out of the seat, and Frenzy clicked the buckle home. “ **Ha.**. There.” Unfortunately, now he was pinned by thighs, arm, chest, and neck. Frag if Frenzy was any good at sorting out Autobots’ funky interior bits! “Now what do I do?” A thought struck him. “Hey, can’t you just gimme enough slack to -- “

The small mech yelped as the safety harness zipped completely taunt, slamming him bodily down into the seat. His free arm flailed, only to tangle in the driver seat’s safety harness and winch down as the buckles fastened with a strong magnetic _click_. “I can,” Red Alert said, voice grimly calm and frighteningly stern over Frenzy’s startled burst of static, “but first you’re going to explain to me why exactly you smell like Thrust.”

“How the frag do you know what he smells like?!” was probably not the most well-thought out response Frenzy could have given to that.

Oops. So much for the easy mission.

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/gunmaxual/pic/00057ke0/)  
“Imposter” **by** [](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/profile)[**shibara_ffnet**](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/)  
 **[* * * * *]**

 

Bumblebee leaned over to whisper, “Is it bad that I want to pet them both?”

Jazz shook his head and whispered back, “Nah. Gotta admit, I’m in the same boat.”

The yellow Mini-bot’s hands twitched, obviously itching to reach out. “I mean…I kinda want to just go over there and tweak their -- their -- **all** of them, really, and then cuddle ‘em for a while.”

Jazz nodded helpless agreement.

Neither of the SpecOps mechs looked away from the disturbingly adorable sight in the Security office. Red Alert insisted on screening every operative who returned from a mission, and none more so than Blaster’s Cassettes. Most of them put up with it with good humor, because a screening was far better than isolation and interrogation. That had been Red Alert’s preferred method until Ratchet finished installing the new sensors, and it’d _sucked._

So getting plonked on Red Alert’s desk by Jazz or Prowl was nothing new for the Tapes. Getting snuffled over by the Security Director was different than they were used to, but hey, change was good.

Steeljaw had gone one step further than acceptance, however. When Red Alert had first put his face in the technimal’s face, the big cat had boldly licked him.

Red Alert had blinked. He’d blinked again. And then he’d shrugged and licked the cat right back.

Which had eventually led to the tumble of Autobot limbs on the floor, engaged in what Jazz and Bumblebee could only think of as ‘social grooming.’

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/gunmaxual/pic/00056dfb/)  
“Social Grooming” **by** [](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/profile)[**shibara_ffnet**](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/)  
 **[* * * * *]**

 

“I meant to do that!” was really not something Ratchet wanted to hear yelled right after an explosion rocked the base. Although it was preferable to silence, because it usually meant Wheeljack wasn’t about to go offline.

Red Alert screaming, “Imposter!” at the top of his vocalizer was a close second. Ratchet really didn’t want to hear that, either. It usually meant the Security Director had glitched again, and Ratchet had thought he’d _fixed_ that.

So hearing an explosion closely followed by, “I meant to do that!” and then, “Imposter!” did not make Ratchet’s day.

The medic high-tailed it toward the engineering laboratory. Ironhide rounded the corner and sprinted after him, but Ratchet could move when he put his mind to it. He pulled ahead easily.

Red Alert’s sirens were _woot-wheeet-wheep_ ing furiously, spotting the hallway outside the laboratory door with red light. Perceptor stood in the hall, patterned by flashing lights as he peered through the open door. Ratchet took some comfort in the scientist’s bemused expression. Confusion was often an after-effect of Wheeljack’s experiments, but Perceptor typically didn’t let it get in the way of emergency first aid. The explosion couldn’t have done too much damage, then. No cause for panic if there wasn’t bodily harm.

Despite the shouting match coming from in the room. “How do I know you’re really Wheeljack?!”

“Come **on** , Red! Who else looks like me, talks like me, has all my passcodes, and -- and -- oh, seriously, why would anyone want to impersonate **me**?”

“I can think of a full six instances wherein all those questions were answered! If you really think you can slip by my defenses, Decepticon -- “

“Aaack! Red Alert! Cut it out! I logged my experiment objectives last shift! This was supposed to happen, I swear!”

“A likely story, hacker!”

“If you’d just read my log, you’ll see that the pulse is **meant** to cause an electromagnetic disruption of my field. It’s to help disguise our field-signatures. You not recognizing me is a good result, honest!”

“What?”

“You reacted exactly as I predicted.”

“ **What.** ”

“Uh…that came out wrong.”

“I am not a test subject!”

“You’re not! Well, I mean, you kind of **are** , but only this once.”

Ratchet slowed, slowed further while listening, and eventually came to a full stop beside Perceptor. Ironhide trotted up a moment later. The two officers exchanged looks as Red Alert screeched the angry warcry of the frazzled Security Director, Wheeljack warbled surprise, and an almighty _crash!_ came from inside the lab. They gave the smaller Autobot an inquiring look. Perceptor smiled back at them and stepped aside. They blinked at each other and leaned over to -- carefully -- look through the door.

Wheeljack thrashed, unable to dislodge the Lamborghini sitting on his back. The Security Director had far more experience subduing intruders than Wheeljack had in escaping peeved test subjects. Red Alert determinedly ignored his efforts to get free and started stroking firm hands over every centimeter of the engineer’s body.

Knowing what Ratchet did about the Security Director’s new sensor suites, that wasn’t nearly as strange an action as it appeared. _’Identification in progress.’_ Ironhide sniggered as the thrashing became feeble twitches very quickly.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Wheeljack said weakly.

“I think it is,” Ratchet said back.

Ironhide smirked. “You two play nice, now.”

“Make him let me go!” the engineer pleaded, then moaned helplessly. Obviously, the situation called for the next level of identity verification, because prolonged touches from hands had become unexpected swipes from Red Alert’s sensor-laden tongue. _’Autobot or imposter? Further data needed.’_

Wheeljack rested his forehelm against the floor and gave up protesting proper security procedure. “Or…at least close the door, please.”

All three Autobots were well-mannered enough not to collapse laughing until the door shut. Ratchet had to clap a hand over his mouth to do so, however, and Ironhide was clearing his throat ever two seconds.

By the time they managed to stand up again, curious mechs from further away in the _Ark_ had begun to arrive, worried about the explosion. The giggling trio of Autobots outside the door got baffled looks all around.

“He meant to do that,” Perceptor informed them complacently.

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

“Like this?” Red Alert frowned, concentrating as he adjusted the tie.

“Yes.” Hook’s voice failed him, and he had to reboot his vocalizer. “Just…just like that.”

The Constructicon stared through the electrified bars of the brig and tried to keep his vent cycles steady. When he’d been shoved into this cell two days ago, he’d thought the restraint pole in the opposite cell to be a crude but necessary structure. Decepticons were not always the kind of mechs the Autobots wanted to leave free to move about, fair treatment of prisoners or not. He’d half-expected to be bound to it himself, but apparently Red Alert hadn’t even been fazed by Hook’s obligatory escape attempt. Ironhide had caught him before he’d taken more than three steps outside the cell, trounced him, and pitched him back in with nothing more than a fancy new set of dents to show for his efforts.

He’d behaved himself since. It wasn’t like he didn’t know the other Constructicons were bartering for his release. Whether or not Megatron condoned it, Scrapper would strike some sort of bargain with the Autobots. Hook knew it, and he’d decided to view his time in the Autobot brig as an opportunity for peace and quiet.

It would have been somewhat relaxing, even, if not for one very small detail: the temperature.

For reasons unknown, the Autobot brig was cold enough that steam rose in fat, lazy curls from the gaps in Hook’s armor. His vents puffed steady streams of smoke-like haze. It was hardly a life-threatening problem, but it was an annoying one. His cooling system had gone dormant after the first two hours. The cold came in through his intakes, constantly trying to cool his core temperature, which required his systems to run hotter to counter the chill. He’d woken up twice now with frost edging his armor after his systems had cycled down for recharge.

It was _irritating._ By the Unmaker’s fiery breath, the _Ark_ was under a few hundred feet of dirt and rock, not to mention that that dirt and rock belonged to an infrequently active _volcano_. There was no logical reason for the temperature inside the ship to be cool, much less cold!

Inefficiency really got on the Constructicons’ nerves, and none more so than Hook’s. He’d finally gotten so fed up with the constant steaming that he’d shouted, “It’s a waste of resources to keep this room cold!” at the idiot Autobot currently guarding at him.

The idiot had only smiled guilelessly. “But the party’s tonight.”

“Why would that matter?!” If Hook had been any less dignified, he might have thrown up his hands in exasperation. He settled for folding his arms and glaring.

“Prime’s taking on the rest of the officers in a drink-off,” had been explained to him, as if that explained anything _at fragging all._

In retrospect, it actually did. Big mechs had to be contained somewhere when thoroughly tanked, and cool locations were the most comfortable for completely inebriated mechs running overcharged. Prime was a really big mech who was definitely drunk off his aft after the party, which was when Red Alert and the fire truck Autobot had arrived with him stumbling between them. The Autobot leader had been chortling merrily at something as they’d laid him out on the floor, and he’d sunk into recharge before the bars had even locked. Neither of the other Autobots had been much better, propped against each other and whispering as they giggled their way back out of the brig. It’d been disgustingly obvious what they’d abandoned their downed leader to go do, and Hook had sneered at their backs as they’d gone.

Now, if it’d been the Decepticons, the Prime would have been left in the brig to sleep off the first surges and then spend the rest of the night drunkenly wandering around his cell. Being that these were soft-sparked idiot Autobots, Hook had expected someone to show up to keep the overcharged mech company.

He…he hadn’t expected this.

“Wrap it around his -- yes, like that.” Hook had to take a quick step back when he started to overbalance into the bars. He hadn’t realized he’d been leaning further and further forward. “Now raise his arms. Secure them at the top -- ” A lump of lust as molten as liquid lead dripped down the back of his throat, and he had to pause to swallow. He could hear Optimus Prime’s engine beginning to purr from here, and his own had been sputtering for a while. “Over the tie, and loop it once around the knot already there,” he finished hoarsely.

It seemed that the restraint pole was more of a recreational device than a disciplinary one. As had been made clear to Hook when Red Alert had reappeared in the brig carrying six massive wooden railway ties, a handful of tow lines, and a set of old-fashioned metal manacles. The Lamborghini had given the Constructicon a tipsy grin and cheerfully asked him for suggestions on how to truss Optimus Prime up like a Christmas turkey. This was, apparently, part of the Security Director’s job. He was responsible for, ah, ‘securing’ all prisoners, even temporary ones from his own faction.

Some part of Hook’s mind took notes. Prime was quite the model prisoner.

It was still cold in the brig. It was also very, very steamy, but Hook didn’t mind so much anymore. 

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **“Some assembly required, For SCIENCE!**  
 **[* * * * *]**

 

"Tab A is inserted into Slot B,” Perceptor read from the instructions, and Skyfire had never found anything to be quite so frustrating as assembling human furniture.

The Autobots were determined to do this human wedding ritual correctly, and that required buying some furniture Carly wanted. Nobody quite knew why only Perceptor, Skyfire, Red Alert, Sunstreaker, and Mirage were being invited to the ‘bridal shower’ while everyone else was required to attend a ‘bachelor party,’ but the bringing of gifts was a tradition the Autobots understood. Skyfire and Perceptor had gone in together to create a special project for their little human friend to enjoy after the honeymoon. Red Alert had only smiled mysteriously and said he had his gift covered. Sunstreaker and Mirage had decided on browsing her bridal registry and found the furniture she’d requested to be quite tasteful.

Brawn had picked Carly’s chosen home decor up from the store for them no problem, but assembling it was _not_ going according to plan. They’d started out believing that reading the instructions was unnecessary. They were advanced sentient alien robots. Surely it would be simplicity itself to put together two interlocking cabinets and desk set complete with office chair.

Only to discover that human furniture was apparently constructed according to laws of nature that simply didn’t exist on Cybertron. “I believe the term is 'unf,’" Perceptor had commented when Sunstreaker and Mirage had surrendered in despair, throwing themselves to the floor in the _Ark_ laboratory and begging abjectly for assistance.

“’Oomph,’” Skyfire had corrected him. “An exaggerated gust of air expressing that one is giving up.”

The smaller scientist had given him a crooked grin. “I was referring to our comrades’ presence at my feet.” He’d gestured at the two mechs prostrate on the floor. They’d kicked their heels, chins propped in their hands as they grinned up at the ranking Science Officer of the ship. “Defeat, I find, opens many doors to opportunity. I believe in exploring every possibility presented to me.”

“Oh.” Skyfire had taken a moment to process that. “…oh.”

“Indeed.” The other Autobot scientist had tipped his head to the side to peer sidelong up at the shuttle. “Do calm down. Trust me, Skyfire. I am a scientist.”

After having heard those exact words from Starscream many, many times, Skyfire knew better than to believe them. He also knew that he’d keep falling for them, because there wasn’t an incident yet that hadn’t been worth it afterward.

Despite the Primus-fragged furniture and it’s horribly inaccurate instruction manual. “I think I found Slot B,” the shuttle said slowly, examining the pieces of furniture on his palm. “Tab A is still missing. Sunstreaker, are you sure you brought everything?” His question got a muffled whine in response, but it sounded vaguely affirmative. “Mirage?”

“Uh-huh,” the noblemech gasped. “Yes. Certainly.” Perceptor bounced slightly on his seat, bending over the makeshift workbench Skyfire had laid the tiny sheaf of instruction papers out on, and Mirage’s gasping became a blurt of static.

Skyfire glanced up. “Sunstreaker might have lost Tab A under his seats,” he suggested after a long, considering moment. “Perceptor, would you mind checking?”

“I would not.”

Sunstreaker whined again, but the squirming was definitely pushing into the scientist’s hands. Perceptor took his own sweet time looking. He checked all the nooks and crannies methodically, making sure to look here, there, and _everywhere._ Skyfire decided not to mention that he’d found Tab A about five minutes into Perceptor’s search. If there were any other furniture pieces lost inside their golden workbench, the smaller scientist would be sure to find it. If they were plastic, they might be a little melted after Sunstreaker overloaded in a scorching blast of hot air, but Skyfire was confident they could manage.

Perceptor was probably the uncrowned king of improvising, after all. Ask him to assemble furniture, and he’d patiently work with what a mech gave him. In this case, a box of frustratingly not-fitting-together wood and two Autobots. Hence, one half-assembled cabinet, a workbench, and a chair.

Said chair looked more than a little intimidated when Perceptor, undeterred by finding nothing during his search, turned his attention downward. Mirage had watched Sunstreaker slump in his bonds, steaming slightly, and now it seemed that the clever hands and vast intellect behind them had turned on him. Wide blue optics stared fixedly at the set of cables Perceptor plucked from off Sunstreaker’s back. The scientist smiled a self-satisfied quirk of his lips and wound the cables around his hands before snapping them taunt. Mirage jumped at the sound.

“Where are the screws?” Skyfire poked futilely through the handful of parts. “There’s supposed to be a whole bag of screws in here.”

“A whole bag, you say?” Perceptor inquired mildly. “How many screws should there be, would you say?”

The shuttle’s lips were twitching when the blue Autobot under his fellow scientist looked at him, optics wild around the edges. Mirage seemed to have no idea what he’d gotten himself into, more’s the pity. “At least three screws. Where are they?”

“I shall endeavor to find them,” Perceptor promised.

“Why, thank you!” Skyfire’s cheer was all the more inappropriate for the fact that he delicately pinched the ‘missing’ bag between thumb and forefinger to wave at Mirage the moment Perceptor’s optics turned away. The spy managed a weak noise reminiscent of _’Wait, what?’_ right before his face was gently turned upward.

"Your electron current flow is inefficient due to our current position,” Perceptor informed him clinically, and Skyfire fought off a temperature warning because he heard that same voice dryly narrating for their experiments every single day and _holy slag that was hot._ Assembling furniture should not be this frustrating, but right now Skyfire _ached_. “I suggest we switch electrodes, in what may be referred to as a 'positive to negative' swap, and I would appreciate it if you did not call this 'bondage.' These are jumper cables, although if you wish me to use them as a leash to lead you, I may do so upon being provided...sufficient motivation.” The smaller scientist flicked an amused look back at Skyfire. “Anode my cathode, and if you do not know my name afterward, you may refer to me as 'baby.'"

The shuttle tore his gaze away and back to the furniture. The human type didn’t moan like that, but it seemed both kinds were some assembly required.

It was a pleasant torture for all involved.

(Three months later, the four mechs so tortured found out that Red Alert’s bridal shower gift had been a video recording of that day in the laboratory. Carly credited it for why she got pregnant so soon after the wedding.)

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/gunmaxual/pic/000546y9/)  
“FOR SCIENCE!” **by** [](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/profile)[**shibara_ffnet**](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/)  
 **[* * * * *]**

 

**[* * * * *]**


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